What Once Was Lost
by Collegekid2006
Summary: The sequel to WHEN ALL IS STRIPPED AWAY. Lassie's quit, Shawn's on his way to jail, and Jules is in the hospital...can anything set the Psych universe back in order?
1. Chapter 1

Lassiter sat on the edge of the dock, his feet dangling over the water. He stared blankly into the black depths, wondering vaguely how long he had before the tourists began showing up, shattering his absolutely perfect silence with their inane, cheerful chatter and damn speed boats.

He glanced down at his watch.

There was still an hour until sunrise.

An hour of silence…

"Lassiter!"

He looked up, startled by the jarring sound of his name being bellowed across the docks.

Henry Spencer was standing in the parking lot next to his truck, beckoning to him with a commanding urgency.

Lassiter groaned.

What the hell was he doing there at 5 o'clock in the morning?

He slowly stood up and began the reluctant trudge over to Henry, who didn't even bother greeting the detective as he approached.

"Take these," he ordered gruffly, tossing Lassiter a couple of fishing poles out of the back of the truck.

Lassiter caught them without argument.

"Going fishing?" He mumbled limply, hoping the stupid question wouldn't spark an actual conversation.

"Yeah," Henry nodded. "….If the damn tourists don't scare them all away first."

He grabbed the cooler and started to walk up one of the piers, glancing behind him to make sure Lassiter was following.

"My boat's over here," he grunted, turning back around before Lassiter could say anything else.

As soon as he reached the boat, Henry dropped the cooler onto the pier and stepped aboard. From the dock, Lassiter handed him the poles, then the cooler.

Neither of them spoke a word during the entire exchange.

Finally, once everything was arranged neatly in the boat, Henry turned back to the detective.

"You owe me 3,000." He said quietly.

Lassiter blinked.

If this was some kind of joke, it was too damn early in the morning.

"Excuse me?" He growled, his eyes narrowing.

Henry met his gaze unflinchingly, his face set into a stern mask.

"You owe me 3,000. For Shawn's bail."

"What the _hell _are you talking about?"

"The way I hear it, the only reason my idiot son punched out a cop and got himself arrested for assault was so you wouldn't do it first."

Lassiter nodded stiffly.

There was no point denying it. Shawn must have told him the whole story.

"Then you owe me 3,000." Henry reiterated. "Not to mention what his damn lawyer is going to cost me…I could hold it over his head for the rest of his life, but let's face it. The kid's never going to be able to pay me back. He couldn't pay me back for a damn Happy Meal."

Lassiter stared at him in dumbfounded silence, searching Henry's face for some trace of humor or jocularity, but all he found was a stern, unwavering frown.

"Go to hell, Henry," he growled, finally deciding he was dead serious about this.

"No."

"I'm not paying you a damn cent!" Lassiter shouted. "I didn't _ask_ your idiot son to punch out Brighton! It's not _my_ damn fault he's a moron!"

"I don't want your damn money!" Henry shouted back.

Lassiter was completely confused now.

"Then what the hell—"

"You owe me." Henry shrugged simply.

"I _owe_ you?" Lassiter returned with a derisive snort. "I don't _owe_ you anything!"

"You owe me 3,000."

"I do not!"

"Then you owe Karen."

Lassiter's fists clenched instinctively at the name. He glowered at Henry, his voice suddenly low and dangerous.

"Go to hell."

"No." Henry crossed his arms firmly, swaying with the motion of the waves gently lapping against the boat. "You caught the son of a bitch who killed her, Lassiter. It was a clean bust. It's not your fault he pulled his gun."

"I know."

"Then stop making him the damn victim!" Henry shouted. "I know what Brighton is saying about you! That you were out for revenge. That you shot an unarmed suspect and dropped a gun to make it look like self-defense. If you let him take your badge without a fight, you're saying he's right."

"He's a moron."

"Of course he's a moron!" Henry snapped. "But that doesn't matter if you let him win! That doesn't matter if the son of a bitch who killed Karen gets to be the poster boy for police brutality. She deserves better than that. You know she does."

"I know."

"Then stop being an ass and get your goddamn badge back."

Henry gestured at the rope that held the boat to the dock.

"And toss me the rope." He muttered, glancing at his watch. "The damn tourists are going to be out soon."


	2. Chapter 2

"You can go in and see her," the nurse told Lassiter, pushing Juliet's door open and stepping aside so he could enter. "But she's on a lot of painkillers. She's been asleep all morning."

Lassiter nodded stiffly, but he didn't outwardly hesitate before walking in.

The lights were low, but he didn't need much light to be able to see her swollen black and purple face from across the room.

"God, O'Hara…" he groaned, slowly approaching her bed. "What the hell did he do to you?"

He paused, almost as if he expected her to answer.

But, of course, she didn't.

She just continued to sleep peacefully, her quiet breathing steady and even.

"What were you doing poking around by the docks, anyway?" He continued, sitting by her bed. "They think that's why he went after you…he saw you poking around, heard you asking questions about Karen…what the hell did you think you were doing? That was my job. I was supposed to track him…I was supposed to follow up on the leads…he was supposed to come after me."

He leaned forward, for a brief moment thinking he had seen Juliet's eyes flutter open. When they didn't, he sighed.

"I know you've heard by now," he went on. "Spencer probably told you. Or Brighton. I shot the bastard, O'Hara. I shot him right between the eyes. In the dark. Best damn shot I've ever taken."

He leaned back, a hard, bitter grin spreading across his face.

"He pulled a gun. What the hell was I supposed to do? He killed Karen…he was going to kill you. I didn't have a choice. It was a clean kill…but IAB took my badge. Brighton managed to fix that. I wasn't going to fight it, O'Hara. I was just going to walk away…there's nothing to stick around for…but I can't do it. Karen deserves better."

He stood up, pacing restlessly over to the window and peering out over the dark parking lot below.

"I didn't want to get you involved." He said quietly. "I was going to walk away so I wouldn't have to get you involved. If I fight this, they're going to find out how I knew where to look for you. They're going to find out you were helping me on the case, that you gave me the tip on James. They could come after you, O'Hara. They could take your badge, too. Brighton hates me enough to do it."

He turned back around so he was facing Juliet.

"I already got Spencer arrested. I already got Karen killed. I almost got you killed. Tell me to walk away, O'Hara. Tell me not to ruin your career. Tell me I'm finished. Tell me to walk away, and I'll walk away."

Juliet stirred, her fingers curling on top of her sheets.

Lassiter sat back down in the chair, watching every move she made intently.

Slowly, almost painfully, she opened her eyes.

"Carlton…" she whispered, her voice sounding hoarse. "If you don't fight it, I'll never speak to you again."

* * *

"Relax, Detective." The DA smiled, turning the tape recorder and placing it on the desk between himself and Lassiter. "It's just a deposition. You've done hundreds of them."

"Yeah…" Lassiter muttered, staring blankly down at the winding spools of tape. "I know."

He crossed his legs and settled back in the leather chair, his stomach clenching as the interrogation began.

"You can have a lawyer present if you want."

"I don't need a damn lawyer."

"Okay, then."

The DA cleared his throat and shuffled the pages of his notebook, as if carefully evaluating the best place to start.

"Let's start at the beginning…" he decided finally, casually resting his elbows on the desk.

As if that made this some sort of informal chat between two old friends.

"You were present at Detective O'Hara's apartment on the night in question. Is that correct?" He asked.

"Yes." Lassiter confirmed flatly, still watching the recorder.

"As were Officer McNab, Chief Brighton and Shawn Spencer?"

"Yes."

"And what, exactly, transpired that night between Mr. Spencer and Chief Brighton?"

Lassiter thought for a long moment before answering.

"Nothing." He said finally.

"Nothing?"

"Spencer didn't say two words to Brighton that night, and Brighton sure as hell didn't say two words to Spencer."

For a moment, the DA looked confused. He pulled out his notebook again and flipped through the pages.

"There wasn't an argument?"

"Oh, there was an argument. But it didn't have a damn thing to do with Spencer."

"Then who--"

"Me. Brighton was pissed I was at the scene. He was probably even more pissed about the black eye I had given him a few days before."

The DA cocked a curious eyebrow at the detective.

"Mr. Spencer wasn't involved in the altercation?"

"No." Lassiter shook his head slowly. "Brighton was hoping I'd be the one to punch him out. He was hoping he'd be able to get me on an assault charge."

"Then how, exactly, did Mr. Spencer end up assaulting him?"

Lassiter shrugged.

"I don't know."

"But he did?"

"I don't know."

The DA sighed, placing his glasses on the desk and leaning across.

"Detective." He said sternly. "I need this on record. Did you or did you not see Mr. Spencer assault Chief Brighton?"

Lassiter hesitated.

In fifteen years on the force, he had never been anything but completely honest in a deposition.

But he wasn't on the force anymore…

"No." He said finally, his jaw setting. "I didn't."

Their eyes locked.

"You didn't see it?"

"No."

"If I put you on the stand," the DA asked, his voice hushed. "Is that the story you're going to stick to?"

"Yeah."

The DA turned off the tape recorder and leaned back in his chair, regarding the detective apprehensively.

"You realize what a defense lawyer can do with a testimony like that on cross-examination. If you say you didn't see it, it could give a jury reasonable doubt."

"I know."

"Are you saying Chief Brighton is lying?"

"No." Lassiter shook his head. "Spencer slugged him. I'll say he did. I just didn't see it."

"But you were standing right there." The DA pointed out. "How could you not see it?"

Lassiter shrugged.

"I blinked."


	3. Chapter 3

Brighton looked up from his desk when the door opened and Lassiter stepped inside.

"What the hell do you want?" He growled, not making a move to stand up.

Lassiter silently shut the door the behind him and crossed the room, tossing the manila file folder he was carrying on the desk as he pulled up a chair.

"To see the look on your face when you read that." He replied, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin.

"What is it?" Brighton mumbled, opening the file and quickly reading the document inside.

"My deposition. I just got done with the DA."

But Brighton had already scanned half the page, his face growing darker with each passing word.

When he finally finished, he shut it and handed it back to Lassiter.

"You lying son of a bitch." He snarled.

Lassiter just shrugged.

"Prove it." He returned, his eyes glinting challengingly.

"You know damn well you saw everything!"

"Did I?" Lassiter scratched his head in supposed confusion. "That board to the back of my head must've knocked some screws loose…and if you think my memory's bad now, wait until they put me on the stand. By then, I might not remember Spencer's name."

Brighton's eyes narrowed at the threat. He kicked his slightly ajar desk drawer closed, cursing under his breath.

"Since when do you give a damn what happens to Spencer?" He demanded, leaning angrily across the desk.

"I _don't_ give a damn what happens to Spencer!" Lassiter snorted contemptuously. "He's been a pain in my ass for five years! If I could've charged him with something myself, I would have! Believe me! I've _always_ wanted to lock him up and throw away the key."

"Then why are you covering for him now?"

"I'm not." Lassiter insisted, standing up. "I'm covering for _me_."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Lassiter rested his hands on the desk, looming over Brighton like a dark shadow.

"I want my badge back." He intoned, his jaw setting determinedly.

Brighton blinked as the pieces suddenly began to fall into place in his mind.

He met Lassiter's gaze evenly, his placid eyes remaining completely emotionless.

Like they were talking about the weather.

"Then you shouldn't have shot an unarmed suspect." He returned flatly.

"It was self-defense."

"That's not how IAB sees it."

"IAB sees it however you _tell_ them to see it!" Lassiter snapped, bringing his fist down on the desk. "And _you_ know it! If you backed my story up, if you pulled a couple of strings, I'd be back on the force in a month!"

Brighton tipped his chair back thoughtfully, looking up at the detective with the jaded caution of a life-long bureaucrat.

"Why the hell would I do that?" He asked, unwilling to actually concede any of Lassiter's points so far.

Lassiter grinned, sliding back into his chair.

"Because you can't beat both of us."

Brighton stood up and silently crossed the room. Lassiter followed him with his eyes as he checked that the office door was shut tightly, then slowly turned back around.

"I already beat you, Lassiter." He said quietly. "Both of you."

"You beat _me_, sure." Lassiter agreed. "But you made one mistake…you can't beat Spencer without my help. Without my testimony, he'll walk. And you know it."

"I don't need you. I have McNabb." Brighton reminded him. "He was there, too."

"Do you?" Lassiter challenged, his voice cool and even. "Are you sure there won't be a memory lapse epidemic?"

Brighton sat back down, his brain turning over this new development. Lassiter grinned as the dawning realization slowly spread over the Chief's face.

"You can't beat Spencer without me." He concluded with victorious finality. "And even if you do somehow manage to get him convicted on the assault beef, he'll be out in a month. And then he'll be right back to annoying the hell out of you. That's not winning, Brighton. That's a draw at best. And there's no way in hell you'll settle for a draw. Not when you can take him down for good."

Brighton's fists tensed, but he was listening now.

Lassiter leaned forward, knowing he had him right where he wanted him.

"What the hell do you want?" Brighton demanded.

"I told you. I want my damn badge back. Get me transferred to another precinct if you want. I don't care. I sure as hell don't want to stick around here anymore. But back me up with IAB, and maybe I'll start to remember what happened that night with Spencer a bit more clearly. Maybe I'll even start to remember some other things…things even you don't know about. Things that could add years to Spencer's jail time if I happened to mention them to the DA."

Brighton's ears perked.

"What things?" He asked, suddenly intrigued.

"How do you think I knew where to find O'Hara? Who do you think told me she was checking out the James lead at the docks before she disappeared?"

"It couldn't have been Spencer. He wasn't on the case."

"You don't know Spencer." Lassiter laughed bitterly. "Not being on a case never stopped him before."

"You mean he was interfering with a police investigation?"

"Interfering was just the warm-up act."

"What else is there?"

Lassiter shook his head slowly, his eyes firm and defiant.

"My memory's a bit fuzzy…"

Brighton sighed as he thoughtfully scratched his chin. For a long moment, the two enemies regarded each other silently, both of them knowing the other wasn't to be trusted.

"Why would you turn on Spencer now?" Brighton asked finally. "You've been on his side this whole damn time."

Lassiter shrugged.

"I told you. I don't give a damn what happens to him. I just want my badge back, and I want out of Santa Barbara."

"Why should I help you with either?"

"Because this is the only way you get what you want. You get me out of town for good, and you get Spencer out of your hair for longer than a month."

Brighton leaned across the desk, his voice suddenly a hushed, angry whisper.

"If you try to screw with me, Lassiter, I'll bury you."

Lassiter met his glare unflinchingly.

"I'm not screwing with you."


	4. Chapter 4

Lassiter sat on his bench, silently staring off into the ocean.

He had sat on this same bench a thousand times before, back in his old life.

Back when he was a cop.

Back when he spent his lunch hours pouring over case files, not even listening to the birds or the waves or the people laughing and jogging along the beach…

None of that had seemed important back then.

Back then, a few weeks ago…

His thoughts were interrupted when Brighton suddenly slid onto the bench next to him.

For a moment, the two sat side-by-side in complete silence, both staring off into the distance. Finally, Brighton handed Lassiter a folded piece of paper without even turning his head to look at the detective.

"What's this?" Lassiter mumbled, unfolding it and glancing it over.

"A copy of the final report I'm going to file with IAB about the James shooting. It says it was self-defense and recommends you be reinstated, with a transfer to another precinct."

Lassiter nodded slowly as he read through the pages.

When he finished, he folded them back up and slid them into his pocket.

"When are you going to file it?" He asked.

"When you give me what you have on Spencer."

Lassiter hesitated, but Brighton wasn't about to let him back out now.

"I still have my original report, Lassiter," he growled. "The one that recommends the DA charge you with murder. It's not too late for me to file that one."

Lassiter sighed, running his hand over the back of his neck, but he still didn't answer.

"I told you if you screwed with me, I'd bury you." Brighton reminded him, his voice trembling with rage. "And I meant it. I'll bury you."

Lassiter looked up, his eyes suddenly brimming with defiance.

"Go to hell." He snarled.

Brighton stood back up, flushed and ready to explode.

"What about your partner?" He snapped.

"What about her?"

"She was off the case, too, Lassiter. She wasn't supposed to be at the docks. I told her not to follow-up on the James lead. You don't think I could get her suspended for that?"

"She was right about James!" Lassiter shouted. "She did your damn job for you!"

"But she was still under orders not to follow-up on the lead."

Brighton sat back down, his breath coming in loud, angry gasps.

"I can bury her, too, Lassiter. And Spencer."

"If I give you Spencer, you'll back off O'Hara?"

Brighton nodded.

"And you'll get your badge back."

Lassiter slouched on the bench, staring off into the blue sky again.

"He has a file…" he said finally, his voice low and somber.

"What file?"

"The James file. I saw it when O'Hara disappeared. He showed me what she was working on. I told you. That's how I knew where to find her."

"How did he get it?" Brighton demanded. "It's police property."

"I don't know." Lassiter shrugged. "But check the records room at the station. The James file isn't there. It's at Spencer's little playhouse. Get a warrant. You'll find it."

"Did O'Hara give it to him?"

"Does it matter?" Lassiter shot back. "You'll never prove it if she did, and you'll look like an ass going after a cop who was almost killed in the line of duty. But you'll be able to send Spencer away for a long time. Tampering with evidence, interfering with a police investigation, possession of stolen property…and whatever else you happen to find when you're searching his place."

Brighton nodded slowly.

"I should be able to get a search warrant."

Lassiter checked his watch and slowly rose to his feet.

"I gave you Spencer." He spat. "When do I get my transfer?"

"I'll file my report tomorrow morning."

Lassiter nodded, turning to leave.

"The file had better be there, Lassiter." Brighton called after him.

Lassiter paused.

"It's there." He murmured quietly. "It's there."

* * *

"Lassie?" Shawn blinked in surprise, looking up at the detective from his supine position on the couch. "What are you doing here?"

Lassiter didn't answer as he crossed the office and took a seat in the chair behind Shawn's clutter-filled desk.

"I had to give my deposition to the DA yesterday." He said finally, once he had settled into the chair.

He absently picked up the small trophy on the corner of the desk and turned it over in his hands.

"What the hell is this?" He muttered, not sounding at all interested in actually finding out the answer.

Shawn sat up, warily watching every move he made.

"Just a gag gift. Gus gave it to me last Christmas." He shrugged, eyeing the detective suspiciously. "And I know about the deposition. My lawyer called me when the DA faxed him a copy."

"Right."

Lassiter returned the trophy to its place at the top of a pile of crumpled, folded papers and stood up.

"It's called perjury, Lassie." Shawn said quietly, his eyes following Lassiter as he crossed back to the door.

"I know what perjury is, Spencer."

"Then what the hell were you thinking?"

Lassiter shrugged.

"They can't prove anything."

"I didn't ask you to--"

"I didn't do it for you, Spencer."

"I know."

"But I'm not going back on it now."

"I know."

"Just watch your back."

"Watch my back?" Shawn repeated, still trying to figure out Lassiter's game. "Why the hell should I--"

"Because he's going after O'Hara next." Lassiter snapped.

"Jules?"

Shawn's eyes widened slightly at the name.

Lassiter nodded grimly.

"They were fishing during the deposition, trying to trip me up. Trying to get me to say she was helping me out on the case. I don't know what Brighton's game is, but he's after her. So watch your back. Don't say anything about--"

"I won't."

"I was working alone, Spencer." Lassiter reiterated, emphasizing each syllable deliberately. "Whatever they ask you, whatever they're after…I was working alone. Keep O'Hara out of it."

Shawn nodded slowly, comprehending his role perfectly.

"You were working alone." He agreed.

Lassiter grunted and reached for the door, but pulled his hand back when Shawn spoke again.

"You didn't have to come by to tell me that, Lassie." He said quietly, still watching the detective with alert, curious eyes. "I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to drag Jules into this. You know that."

Lassiter turned back around, his eyes flashing angrily.

"Don't tell me what I had to do, Spencer." He growled. "She's _my_ damn partner."

"I know."

"Just keep her out of it."

"I will…but that's not why you're really here. Is it?"

"Go to hell." Lassiter snarled, slamming the door behind him as he finally stormed out.

Shawn sat silently on the couch for a few minutes after the detective left, silently running over the conversation in his mind.

"That's not why he was here…" he told himself, slowly standing up and walking over to his desk. "There's something else…some other reason…"

He collapsed into the chair and propped his feet up on his desk, staring at the small trophy.

Suddenly, it all began to click in his mind.

_Why would Lassie pick it up…?_

_He made a point of picking it up…_

_Then he put it back…_

He leaned across the desk and picked up the pile of papers and files that were underneath the trophy, slowly flipping through them.

_Was he looking for something…?_

He stopped when he reach the bottom of the pile.

The last folder was a plain, nondescript manila file folder, but Shawn immediately knew he had never seen it before.

_What the hell…?_

He opened it and glanced through the contents.

"Howard James?" He asked himself out loud, looking up at the door as if he expected Lassiter to walk back in at any moment and explain himself. "Where the hell did this come from?"

The more important question, however, remained unspoken, though it was pounding furiously through Shawn's mind.

_Why the hell would Lassie leave this here…?_


	5. Chapter 5

The radio in the squad car parked down the street crackled to life when Shawn left the Psych office a few hours later, shutting the lights off and locking the door behind him.

"Hey, Chief…" the uniformed officer inside spoke into it, pulling away from the curb and driving off in the opposite direction. "You wanted to know when Spencer left for the day…"

Fifteen minutes later, Brighton pulled into the parking lot down the block from Psych and parked. He looked up and down the street before climbing out of the car, but he could already see that no one was around.

No one would see him…

He quietly approached the front door of the detective agency and surveyed the lock.

It wasn't much of a security system…just one flimsy lock, not even a deadbolt…

He was inside almost before he could think about what he was doing.

He slipped on a pair of thin gloves, just in case, and silently gazed around the office.

There wasn't filing cabinet anywhere; just a stack of random papers and files on the corner of the desk.

He quickly decided that was the best place to start.

It didn't take him long to root through the piles and find the file he was looking for.

He grinned to himself as he flipped through the pages.

It was all there.

It was enough to put Spencer away for a long time…

_Lassiter wasn't bullshitting me…_

_It's really here…_

_And tomorrow, I'll be back with a search warrant…_

* * *

The next afternoon, Brighton didn't even bother knocking when he arrived at Psych with two officers to execute the search warrant.

Shawn didn't look surprised to see him.

"You brought bodyguards this time?" He grinned, kicking his heels up on the desk and leaning back in his chair, apparently not the least bit disconcerted by the Chief's presence in his office.

"Shut up, Spencer." Brighton snarled, tossing the warrant by Shawn's feet.

Shawn sat up and looked it over, lazily at first. But as he read further, his face grew more and more perplexed.

"Stolen police file?" He read. "What file?"

"The Howard James file." Brighton snapped. "It's missing from the records room."

"What the hell makes you think _I_ have it?" Shawn asked, blinking innocently. "I don't even know who Howard James is! Is he the dude who owns all those motels?"

"No." Brighton growled. "He's not. He's the convict Lassiter shot through the head. _And_ his file is missing, _and_ I'm not leaving until we search every damn inch of this office for it."

"Okay…" Shawn shrugged, standing up. "Knock yourself out…or I could do it for you…_again._" He added under his breath.

Brighton heard the remark, but let it pass.

Finding the file was the only revenge he'd need…

He let the officers bumble around looking for it for a few minutes while Shawn watched from the doorway, not seeming the least bit concerned.

After ten minutes, however, when they still hadn't managed to find the file Brighton knew was there, he decided to step in. He walked over to the desk and grabbed the stack of papers off the corner. He flipped through them casually, knowing at the bottom of the pile was the file…

_This is where it was last night…._

Except now it wasn't there.

He glanced over at Shawn out of the corner of his eye, but he hadn't moved. He wasn't even watching Brighton. He was watching the other two officers, who were looking under the couch.

Brighton flipped through the stack again, but the file still wasn't there.

He dropped it back on the desk and moved on to the next pile.

_Spencer must have moved it…_

It only took three minutes to look through every file and paper on the desk.

The James file wasn't there.

It wasn't anywhere.

It was gone.

"Where is it, Spencer?" Brighton growled, slamming the desk with his fist. "What the hell did you do with it?"

"I don't have it!" Shawn insisted. "I never said I did!"

"I have sources--"

"Yeah, well…your sources are seriously deranged." Shawn muttered. "Why the hell would I steal some file for a case I didn't even work on?"

Brighton didn't answer. He just went back to searching, ripping the desk apart from the inside out.

After two more hours, however, he had to give up.

The file was gone.

* * *

Brighton slammed his office door behind him, absolutely fuming.

"Did you find it?" A voice from the dark corner spoke up.

He flipped the light on, but he already recognized the voice.

"Lassiter!" He snarled at the detective, who was sitting quite comfortably in one of the plush chairs. "How the hell did you get in here?"

Lassiter stood up, dangling a set of keys from his fingers.

"Karen never could keep track of her keys." He said quietly. "She was always locking herself out of the office. I always kept a spare set for her. So…did you find it?"

Brighton grunted, his eyes narrowing angrily.

"No." He snapped. "I didn't."

Lassiter looked surprised.

"Really? It wasn't at Spencer's?"

"No!"

"Huh."

He crossed back to the door, shrugging casually.

"Maybe you should check your desk." He suggested over his shoulder.

"What?"

Lassiter turned back around, a slow grin starting to form at the corners of his mouth.

"Maybe you should check your desk."


	6. Chapter 6

For a brief moment, Brighton hesitated. But the defiant glint in Lassiter's eyes finally convinced him he had to do it.

He crossed the office to the desk and slowly opened the center drawer.

Sitting there, looking up at him mockingly, was a plain manila file folder.

Brighton stared down at it, completely dumbstruck. He didn't have to open it to know what was inside.

He looked back up, his eyes blazing at Lassiter.

"What the hell is this?" He demanded.

Lassiter shut the office door and came back inside, his grin steadily growing by the second.

"I don't know. It looks like a file."

Brighton slammed the desk drawer so fiercely that the force rattled the frosted glass on the office door.

"What the hell are you trying to pull, Lassiter?"

"Me?" Lassiter blinked innocently. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I don't have the damndest idea why you would accuse Spencer of stealing a file that's in your desk…that is, unless you were trying to set him up."

"Set _him_ up?" Brighton repeated, his voice trembling with rage. "What the _hell_ are you talking about? _You_ came to _me_!"

Lassiter didn't answer.

He just reached coolly into his pocket and produced a small, black tape recorder.

"I still have my original report, Lassiter." The familiar, gravely voice on the tape threatened. "The one that recommends the DA charge you with murder. It's not too late for me to file that one. I told you if you screwed with me, I'd bury you."

"That sure sounds like coercion to me…" Lassiter mumbled, turning the tape off. "What do you think the DA would say?"

For once, Brighton didn't have an answer.

He stared at the tape recorder in stupefied silence.

"I'll tell you what the DA would say." Lassiter continued, not waiting for a response from the stunned Chief. "The DA would say that it sure as hell looks like you accused Spencer of stealing a file that was never missing to begin with. The DA would say that it sure as hell looks like you threatened O'Hara and bribed me to get to him."

Their eyes locked, and for a moment a flash of bitter hatred crossed Brighton's face.

"You don't have your badge back yet, Lassiter." He growled. "I could still bury you for the James shooting."

"After you filed a final report calling it self-defense?" Lassiter snorted. "Even you're not that big an ass. You can't go back on your story now. Not with the threats you made on this tape. You can't touch me."

Brighton's fists clenched as he saw the victory he'd had firmly in his grasp only twenty-four hours ago slowly starting to go up in smoke.

"I still have Spencer on the assault…" he whispered, desperate to cling to something.

"True…" Lassiter nodded slowly. "But if it goes to trial, I can't promise his lawyer won't get a copy of this tape."

Lassiter dropped the recorder back in his pocket and walked to the door.

"You can still pull every string you have and stop me from getting my badge back." He conceded quietly, not turning back around to face the fuming Chief. "If you wanted to, you could. But it doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

Lassiter turned back around, his eyes gleaming victoriously.

"Because I still beat you."

Shawn slid onto the barstool next to Lassiter without a word.

Lassiter glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye, but for once the detective didn't tell him to get lost.

For once, they just sat.

Finally, after Lassiter polished off his second drink, Shawn spoke.

"They dropped the charges." He said quietly, foregoing his usual beer in favor of a scotch.

Lassiter grunted.

"Yeah…" Shawn continued, gently swirling the liquid around the glass before taking a slow sip. "Strange thing…they couldn't find any witnesses. And Brighton said he wouldn't testify."

He suddenly dropped the glass back on the bar, wiping his mouth off on the sleeve of his shirt in disgust.

"God!" He groaned. "That's awful! How do you _drink_ that stuff?"

Lassiter drained the rest of his glass without so much as flinching.

"You get used to it." He muttered, dropping some bills on the counter and standing up to leave.

He only took three steps, however, before Shawn's voice stopped him from walking away.

"You could have told me, you know."

Lassiter turned back around.

"Told you what?"

"Your plan, Lassie." Shawn rolled his eyes. "You could have told me your plan."

"I don't know what the hell--"

"Lassie, please." Shawn snorted, tapping his temple. "Psychic, remember? I figured it out. Once I found the file you planted--"

"You found it?"

Lassiter looked genuinely surprised by the revelation.

"You left it on my desk! I mean, I know I'm a little messy…but give me some credit!"

Lassiter blinked, somehow finding his way back to the barstool.

"But when I went back for it--" he mumbled, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

"It was right where you left it." Shawn nodded. "I put it back."

Lassiter looked over at him, completely baffled.

"How did you know I wasn't setting you up?"

Shawn shrugged.

"I'm psychic."

"Spencer--"

"I knew, Lassie. That's all. If you put it there and didn't want me to know about it, you had a reason."

For a moment, Lassiter was speechless.

Shawn spun the stool around and rested his arms against the bar casually.

"Besides…" he pressed on. "I figured it out later. Once I saw the search warrant Brighton had, I knew you must have told him I had the missing file. But Brighton wouldn't take _your_ word for that. He hates your guts even more than he hates mine…and, believe me. He _really_ hates my guts. He wouldn't risk you making him look like an ass by going on a wild goose chase. He had to make sure I really had the file before he executed the search warrant."

Lassiter nodded.

"I tailed him all day. Stupid bastard didn't even notice me. Once he found it, I knew he'd be back with the search warrant. I got it out before he did and planted it in his desk."

"His _desk_?" Shawn laughed. "How'd you do that?"

Lassiter reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He dropped them limply on the counter.

"I still have Karen's spare keys."

Shawn picked them up and looked them over, still laughing.

"Man, I wish I could've seen his face."

"Yeah…" Lassiter agreed, a small grin creeping across his face at the memory.

Shawn took another sip of his scotch, shuddering as if it had kicked him in the stomach.

"God, the second drink's even worse!"

He put the glass back down and pushed it away, turning back to the detective.

"You still could have told me your plan."

Lassiter shook his head.

"I didn't know if it would work. If it backfired…"

He left the thought unfinished, but Shawn didn't need it to be finished.

Shawn stood up like he was going to leave, but for a minute he just stood silently, not moving.

"I hear Brighton's transferring." He said finally.

Lassiter shrugged.

"Might be."

"I hear the guy they got to replace him is a real bastard, too."

Lassiter nodded firmly.

"He is. And he hates psychics."

Shawn laughed.

"Who doesn't?"

He paused for another moment, then finally turned around to leave.

"See you tomorrow, Chief." He added over his shoulder.

"_Interim_ Chief." Lassiter corrected sharply.

"Interim?" Shawn repeated, laughing. "They actually made you take the title Interim Chief?"

Lassiter shook his head, smiling palely.

"No."


End file.
